The Human Misunderstanding
by A Midnight Dreary
Summary: -07movie-verse.non09movie compliant- The Autobots have vanished. Sam is five years removed from the day he last saw them.
1. Crying Over Spilt Milk

**A/N:** This is a story that has been gnawing on my soul for a little while in a really determined sort of way. I've decided that it would be fun to unleash it upon the rest of you. This DOES NOT mean -- in _any_ fashion -- that I've stopped working on **Aftermath**. This is just a little something to tide you over until the next installment of **Aftermath** is complete. I've been pretty quiet lately. In contrast to **'Til All Are One**, the story has heavy focus on the human characters (since I think they tend to be pretty underappreciated) rather than the robots. The robots are cool, but sometimes the humans deserve their chance in the limelight. This story is almost entirely separate from the **TAAO**-verse save for a few tiny (and I do mean _tiny_) elements. In other words, don't expect to see the Seekers. Like, at all.

I can tell you right now that updates are going to be spaced rather far apart; between other stories and a number of kinks in the early part of the plot. A virtual cupcake for anyone who can guess the root of the plot with just this first chapter. Let's just say that I'm not the first person to attempt this story line.

As with all my stories, this one is SLASH-FREE. Reviews are highly encouraged.

**Disclaimer:** The concept of _Transformers_, among other things, belongs to HasTak and some other people. At least one character in this chapter is original and belongs to me.

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**The Human Misunderstanding**

_Logic: The art of thinking and reasoning in strict accordance with the limitations and incapacities of the human misunderstanding._ -Ambrose Bierce

Chapter One: Crying Over Spilt Milk

* * *

"Sir? Sir, are you alright? Can you hear me?"

Sam woke up.

His first thought was: _Not this _**again**_._

He was lying flat on his face, arms and legs spread out around him. His cheek was pressed into the grit and a pointy rock was stabbing into the soft, fleshy part of his shoulder. He made an effort to twist the offended joint away. A chubby hand was patting the side of his cheek and a worried voice was speaking. It took him a moment to realize that the voice was speaking to him.

"Sir, do you need an ambulance?"

Sam groaned, raising his heavy hands to try and bat the voice away. All he accomplished was bringing them down on the top of his head. A few almost sob-like noises escaped him. He knew where he was. He was lying under a bridge in the middle of Central Park.

Again.

"Sir?"

Sam raised his head and the morning sunlight hit him full in the face, causing him to wince and squint his eyes shut. Judging from the angle and the warmth, he would say it was at least 7:00. 7:30 at the latest. He supposed that his alarm was going off back home right about now.

"Sir?" It was one of the park officers; the easy-going, slightly chubby type who didn't spend nearly enough time exercising as he should have. "Are you alright? Would you like me to call for an ambulance?"

"No..." Sam ground out, hoisting himself to his feet. This didn't work and he ended up sitting down. The park officer was crouched beside him, a mobile phone in one hand. "I'm fine." he assured the man.

"Have you been drinking?" the man asked, staring at the twenty-two year old through beady eyes.

"Drinking?" Sam let out a sarcastic snort. "I wish."

He took stock of himself. He was barefoot and his toes were cold, but he had anticipated that; clad in his boxers and the loose shirt that he normally slept in; a faint ache up in his sinuses, but no pounding headache, no increased sensitivity to light and sight; no hangover. He hadn't been drinking. Not last night, anyways.

That meant Miles and Daniel hadn't up and decided that Sam had been moping too much lately. Whenever they decided that he was, they always got him liquored up, stripped him down to his skivvies and then dumped him in Central Park because a little excitement had never hurt a body. They always left him to run home before he was arrested for being indecently exposed.

He hated it when they did that.

They meant well in their attempts to make him more cheerful and he had to appreciate the effort they put into it, but he still hated it.

"Then-- Can I ask what you were doing?" the park officer asked. He looked puzzled, as if Sam was a conundrum that couldn't be solved. Sam got back to his feet and dusted himself off.

"I was sleepwalking." he replied. He scrubbed the errant twigs and leaves and dirt out of his hair and then set off across the slightly damp and remarkably chilly grass towards home. He hoped that he hadn't overslept or anything. The last thing he needed was to find out that he was late for work. He still needed breakfast and a quick shower to get rid of the dirt.

Fortunately for him, home was only two blocks from Central Park; an old brownstone that sat comfortably in a nice neighborhood on the Upper West Side. It was a neighborhood that was still mostly asleep. So no one really noticed Sam's cautious dash down the sidewalks on his bare feet. This was New York City, after all. One could march down the street tarred and feather while reciting Shakespeare at the top of their lungs in hysterical alarmist tones while holding up a sign that read "**THE END IS NEAR**" and the pedestrians wouldn't do much more than bat an eye. The city operated on caffeine and high levels of stress. The former was conspicuously absent at 7:30 in the morning, so no one really noticed very much.

The spare key was right where he remembered it being; buried in the soil of the flowerpot on the stoop. The pot was normally bursting with bright red and yellow flowers, planted there by Mikaela who had decided that the brownstone blended in just a little **too** well with the neighboring houses. But blooming season had passed (it was already September), so the pot was full of a mass of green leaves and stems instead.

Sam unlocked the door and let himself inside the old house. Various pairs of scuffed, dirty shoes littered the front hall, along with the winter coats that wouldn't see regular use for another two months, at minimum. They hung from the row of pegs on the wall, draped across each other in a haphazard manner. They looked like they would fall off if they were so much as breathed on. There was a potted fern hanging from the ceiling. It had been hanging there for longer than Sam had lived in the house and there had been quite a lot of opposition to taking it down. After all, its name was Freddy.

The entire house bore a very comfortable and lived-in feel, like an old shoe that was falling apart, but not ready to be given up just yet. The mess was also proof that despite Mikaela's developing mother hen instincts and somewhat neat-freak tendencies, she just couldn't keep up with the daily messes generated by three guys. Some days she just threw up her hands and walked away.

The enticing smell of cinnamon was wafting from the kitchen on his left and faint pop that heralded the use of the waffle-cooker. Sam smiled and wiped his feet off on the welcome mat (no reason to track dirty footprints through the house and incite Mikaela's fervor about keeping the floor clean or else he would find himself sleeping on the couch before he could blink) before proceeding up the four steps to the main floor. He could go for some waffles right about now. And he pretty sure that they were out of cereal too.

A large bay window illuminated the breakfast nook and the kitchen, both areas separated by a cluttered breakfast bar that seemed to exist purely for decoration. The bar was used mainly as a dumping ground for spare change, old newspapers and broken bits of electronics (such as an old mobile phone and a very broken Ipod that no one had dared laid claim to).

And for some reason, a curiously large amount of laundry found its way onto the bar as well. Currently, a stack of bath towels had been placed there, carefully hiding the underclothes that had yet to be sorted through and claimed. All of the underclothes were manly in nature (as Mikaela had already swiped hers away). Sam shared the old brownstone with not just Mikaela, but his long-time friend Miles, as well as a third friend that they had picked up in the last five years.

His name was Daniel Gregory Allen Robert Gallagher.

Daniel Gregory Allen Robert Gallagher had been named for three of his uncles and a great-grandfather on his father's side. He rather hated the whole idea of being named after so many people. He occasionally plotted the untimely of his parents for wanting to honor a few too many relatives with just one kid and frequently wondered how much trouble it would be to get his name legally changed.

Daniel had his nose buried in the morning paper when Sam came into the kitchen. He sat on the end of the breakfast bar, his legs swinging back and forth in a lazy manner. A fork was in one hand, no doubt ready to be used to pry up some waffles from the iron. The top of his head could be seen over the edge of the paper, shaggy brown hair sticking up in cowlicks from a night of sleep with his head halfway under the pillow.

"Good morning, Daniel!" Sam called loudly, making sure the other boy heard it and acknowledged his existence.

"Huh?-- Oh, g'morning. It's 7:03, by the way. Did you come in through the front door?" Daniel asked. "Oh goodie, Obama's still way ahead in the polls. Go Mr. President!"

"Yeah." Sam gestured to the waffle-cooker set up on the counter. "Any of those ready yet?"

"Yeah, a couple. How far did you get this time?" Daniel lowered the paper, folding it in half to continue reading the story he was engrossed in.

"Somewhere near the Turtle Pond. I was under a bridge." Sam turned to see a plate of waffles sitting between the burners. There were indeed only half a dozen individual waffles. His house-mate hadn't been up for that long. "One of the park officers woke me up."

"Was it Officer Moore? I like him. He's cool." Daniel commented. He grinned. "Whoo-hoo! Take that Palin! Obama for 2012!"

Sam let himself smile and helped himself to some waffles. Daniel was rather Democratic when it came to the government and that suited him just fine. Sam really couldn't imagine the budding, screw-loose playwright with mad computer skillz and the ability to pick up any gun and know exactly how to use it, being anything **but** a left-wing nutjob. He wasn't the type to give in to conformity without a serious fight.

"Hey Sam, 'Kaela wants me to say something to you about this sleepwalking thing you've been doing lately." Daniel said in a flat sort of voice. "Okay, I've said something about it."

"Not going for the details?" Sam laughed, slathering his waffles with a generous amount of syrup.

"No point; you've heard everything a hundred times already anyways." Daniel pointed out. "Though if she asks, tell her I lectured you about the long-term effects of sleepwalking."

"I'm not sure if I can do that. She's got the power to make me sleep on the couch." Sam reminded him. "I don't like sleeping on the couch. It's uncomfortable. It's got lumps."

"Lovely lady lumps."

"Oh, I did not just hear you say that."

Daniel grinned, bobbing his eyebrows. "You heard me say that."

Sam groaned as he stuck his head in the refrigerator in search of the orange juice.

"But seriously Sam, you oughta brush up on the long-term effects. I know that this has only been happening for a few months, but really." Daniel said in a much more serious tone. "It's not going to kill you. The sleepwalking itself might. Like if you walk in front of a car or something."

"Daniel, I don't like waking up in the park!" Sam snapped, shutting the fridge door with more force than was really necessary. A few magnets fell off. "Every time it happens, Mikaela **does** get worried that I'm going to wander right into a car one night! Or that I'm not going to come home!"

"Chill out, Sam. I'm just saying." Daniel waved a hand. "I know you don't like hearing it, but me and Miles get worried every time Mikaela wakes us up to tell us that you're not in bed. And it's not like you're wandering into the park every single time."

Sam sighed heavily and poured himself a glass of orange juice.

"I just want to know what the problem is."

"Well, let's see..." Daniel dug a piece of paper out of his trouser pocket. "Are you suffering from high levels of stress or anxiety? Is everything going good at work? With 'Kaela?"

"Well, other than 'Kaela's frequent disappearing acts, nothing's wrong. And everything's fine at work too." Sam replied. He looked around cautiously. "She's not here, is she?"

"Already gone by the time I got up. Dunno if she went looking for you or ran off to that mysterious job of hers." Daniel shrugged. He went back to his list. "Uh... Are you taking drugs?"

"No."

"Been maintaining a regular sleep schedule?"

"Yeah."

"Are you menstruating or pregnant?"

"DANIEL!"

Daniel grinned shamelessly. "And finally, the obvious one. Anyone else in your family sleepwalk?"

"None that I know of." Sam shook his head. He ran his fingers through his hair. "Wish I knew what was so interesting about the park that my brain feels the need to drag me in there a couple nights a month."

"Maybe you're part of a midnight dancing troupe comprised entirely of sleepwalkers." Daniel suggested with a completely straight face.

Sam broke the record for spitting any sort of liquid halfway across the kitchen. The orange juice splattered on the face of a barely awake Miles who had just staggered up from his basement lair, drawn by the smell of waffle-y goodness. The lanky blond just blinked at the attack of the orange juice. He plucked at one lock of damp hair and peered at it with bleary eyes.

"What the hell, Sam?..." he asked in a not entirely awake voice.

"Sorry, Miles."

Daniel tossed him one of the bath towels he was sitting next to and Miles started to dry himself off from his impromptu shower.

"That was disgusting, Sam." he commented from the breakfast table about ten minutes later when there were enough waffles fit for consumption.

"I said I was sorry."

"That was in your mouth!"

"I get it Miles!"

Daniel let out a sharp whistle.

"I went through a lot of trouble to make breakfast this morning!" he snapped in an aggrieved sort of voice, though his expression greatly suggested otherwise. "So I wanna see you two _savoring_ it!"

"Yeah, lotta trouble." Miles commented, taking his knife and preparing to mutilate his poor waffles. "'Cause mixing pre-prepared batter is really hard."

Sam sniggered into his plate.

"You'd be surprised how hard it is." Daniel said, swiping the Mrs. Buttersworth. "Those eggs can really put up a fight."

There was a moment of silence.

"Our couch has lovely lady lumps." Sam said out loud.

Miles choked and threw a piece of waffle at him.

"Daniel said it first!" Sam stabbed a finger in the aforementioned's direction.

"You totally left an opening!" Daniel retaliated, crossing his arms in front of him as if to ward off any flying bits of food. "Don't go blaming this on me! I saw an opening and I took it!"

"Man, I don't wanna know!" Miles said once his airways were clear again. "Just don't let the concubine hear you say that."

"I don't plan on it." Sam assured him. Miles's use of the term 'concubine' when describing Mikaela was more in jest nowadays. He meant nothing offensive by it, but he was still certain to not let her hear it used.

"Speaking of the concubine, anyone wanna take a guess about where she went this morning?" Daniel suggested brightly.

"It's Tuesday. She doesn't have any classes today." Sam said. He had already memorized Mikaela's college class schedule. "Mysterious job? Do you have any idea what her job is? She won't even tell me and I'm her boyfriend!"

"Maybe she's cheating on you." Miles shrugged.

Daniel raised an eyebrow. "And getting _paid_ for it?"

"Mikaela is **not** moonlighting as a prostitute!" Sam shouted, defensive on his girlfriend's behalf.

"Easy dude, but seriously. She's out late, she leaves early, she doesn't talk about what she's doing and she's always tired when she gets home." Miles pointed out. "You and her haven't had a real night out in the last year and a half."

"Yeah. We would know." Daniel added seriously. "Honestly, you're supposed to be a happy couple. And happy couples spend time together. Otherwise..."

Both of his friends gave Sam a significant look and Sam guiltily thought of what he had been hiding from Mikaela for almost four months now. He meant to, really, he just hadn't found the proper time or the place to do it.

The morning meal went by in relative peace, if not silence. All three men were really just overgrown boys with an undue fondness for explosions, flinging bits of food at each other, and seeing who could burp the loudest. Daniel finished first in a little under ten minutes. Five years in marching band had taught him how to shovel down food at a fast pace without choking on it, since oftentimes, he'd had to eat dinner at least half an hour before practice began to ensure a settled stomach. He had never quite broken himself of the habit. So he was up from the table first and back upstairs not long after.

Sam finished next, mainly because he still needed his shower. While Miles lingered over his waffles and read the comics, his friend hurried back upstairs to clean himself up. Sam liked nature, but he really didn't want to turn up at work smelling like it. He showered and shaved off his pitiful amount of facial hair (just like his father; the family was riddled with men unable to grow beards). Then he clad himself in a nice dress shirt and black khaki slacks. In other words, he exhibited a classic business-causal appearance.

By eight o'clock, he was out the door and running for the nearest bus stop.

Twenty-two year old Samuel James Witwicky was five years removed from the day when he had tried to EBay off the remainder of his great-grandfather's worldly possessions, only to get caught up in a power struggle between two warring factions of giant alien robots.

Life had gotten a bit strange after that. But adjustments had been made on all sides, life had settled down and Sam had realized his teenage dream to have a smoking-hot girlfriend and an equally smoking car.

As well as realizing that he was one of the few people who could positively claim that there was intelligent life in the universe, besides the humans themselves.

But Sam was also five years removed from the day that he had last seen the Autobots.

He still had the smoking girlfriend, but the smoking car had vanished and he had no idea what had happened to it.

That would have been a weird thing to say, but the 2009 GTO Camaro Concept had been perfectly capable of deciding to go on a nightly stroll and then, more importantly, executing said decision.

It had happened in late December 2007. On the same day that Sam and Mikaela had gotten off for Christmas break, the Autobots had detected a distress signal coming from one of Utah's many canyons. With the assurance that they would return by the New Year, Optimus had led his team towards the signal's origin point. Following that, the Autobots had vanished.

It was the only word for it.

The then-newly formed Networked Elements: Transformers (AKA: NET; designed to keep the Autobots safely hidden in plain sight) had reported that the radiation signatures that the Autobots' spark signatures registered as had just gone; falling off the radar somewhere in southern Utah. None of the human allies had been contacted and quite frankly, they had been left in the dark on the 'Bots' whereabouts.

After a few weeks of worrying silence, Sam had tried to come up with reasons for the lack of contact. His suggestions had run the gamut from "They went home" all the way to "It was a trap and they got killed".

Another week after that, he had spilled the beans of their existence to Miles. His friend had been wondering where Satan's Camaro had gone, so Sam had told him. He suspected even now that Miles still didn't quite believe that he was telling the truth (Sam hadn't had any solid proof to give him except his own word), but the blond had been, more or less, content to take Sam at his word, despite the utter psychosis of the explanation. Sam's saving grace was that he had never actually lied to Miles and Miles couldn't recall a time that Sam had lied to him.

By the time graduation had come around, Sam had all but given up hoping that the Autobots would return. Mikaela had been growing very short with his constant moping. She had moved on faster than he had, having been taught "What is done, is done". The past could not be changed. So Sam -- in an effort to accept everything as it stood and move forward as well -- had started making plans for college, investigating job openings and had even started looking at apartments around Tranquility.

That didn't stop him from keeping his eyes and ears open, alert for any sign of otherworldly activity.

In mid-July, a new distraction had arrived in the form of a beaten-up station wagon dying literally right in front of the Witwicky household. Then Daniel Gallagher had come knocking on the front door, asking to use the phone to call a mechanic because his mobile had died. The station wagon had been pretty thoroughly dead and required almost two weeks at the mechanic's to make it road-worthy again. Even then, it had been doubtful that the car would survive the trip back across the country.

Judy Witwicky, being the motherly woman that she was, had offered Daniel and his younger brother James the floor of the den to sleep on while their car remained in the shop. Mikaela had been all but living with the Witwickys at that point and Miles actually **had** been living with them. He had been given the boot by his parents shortly after graduation, informing him that he would be allowed to come back and retrieve the majority of his possessions once he had found a place of his own. In the two weeks it took the car to be fixed, the four eighteen-year olds had bonded over stories about their crazy parents and moments where weird shit had happened to them.

Daniel had initially come across as a rather paranoid git and he still did. He believed that Mission City had been nothing more than a massive government cover-up and he had even had a hand in perpetuating the theory that the giant fighting robots were really aliens battling it out for freedom from tyranny (a theory so dead-on it had caused Sam to snort orange soda up his nose and spend the next minute hacking his lungs up).

When asked exactly what he and his brother had been doing in Nevada, Daniel had explained that they had been attempting a cross-country road trip; from New York to San Francisco and back again. With the station wagon in its current condition, he had also decided that maybe it would be better to skip the last leg of the trip and try to get home again before the thing died a second time.

Somehow, the conversation had turn to college and plans for the future. Sam, Mikaela and Miles had all planned to move out sooner or later; it was just a matter of finding a place to live. Preferably something that they could afford. Daniel had casually mentioned that he owned a three-bedroom brownstone not far from Central Park. Some more soda-snorting had occurred at this.

Daniel had gone on to explain that his Uncle Robert had owned the brownstone first. Uncle Robert had died two years previously and he had left all of his earthly possessions to his nephew, real estate included, despite some opposition from the rest of his family. Daniel had signed for everything a scant two months before; days after his eighteenth birthday. The brownstone was officially his and there was no mortgage attached. It was also the reason they couldn't get rid of Freddy the Fern.

By the end of the two weeks, moving to New York City had seemed like a very grand idea indeed.

It had been clinched when Sam had discovered that he had been accepted into NYU.

And that was where the new set of friends had found themselves by September; two of them missing the Autobots; the other two simply searching for a way to move their lives forward.

One year and four months later, Sam was expelled from NYU for inciting a riot in the middle of the campus.

He refused to talk about it.

One week following the expulsion, he had applied for an entry-level job with an insurance firm and had been hired.

And that had been his life ever since.

It was far from a glamorous job. Sam sat in a cubicle near a window, with a computer at one elbow and a coffee mug at the other. His job was mainly to plug numbers into the computer, file client information and occasionally clean out the coffee machine in the break room. It wasn't glamorous by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a secure job with a steady paycheck and a predictable routine; complete with the bad office jokes that always seemed to involve Irishmen and pubs.

So like every week-day, Sam was on thirtieth floor of the office building with a pen halfway up his nose and he didn't particularly care. He was coming to the conclusion that most sleepwalkers didn't get much sleep during their nightly strolls. He was _exhausted_ and it was nowhere near lunch-time yet. At glance at the clock told him that it wasn't even 10:30.

_I should see if Orion has got another file for me._ Sam thought idly, slowly twisting the pen. _I'm supposed to be working. Can't slack off. It's only Tuesday... Oh god, I think I'm going to fall asleep right here. I should get another cup of coffee. That'll be my-- what, second cup in the last hour? I think I drink too much coffee. Mikaela would kill me if she knew about my growing coffee addiction._

He let out a gusty sigh. _But I haven't seen Mikaela properly in months. That job of hers is really eating up a lot of time. I mean, she can't be cheating on me. She always wants to snuggle when we go to bed. She's fine with the snuggling thing._

_Unless she's doing it out of guilt. _

_What if Miles is right?! What if 'Kaela really is cheating on me!--_

"Sam!"

The pen jerking out of his nose, Sam looked up to see one of his co-workers -- named Orion Parker -- hovering over the cubicle wall, looking a cross between concerned, amused, and annoyed. Judging from the overall expression, he had been trying to get Sam's attention for a few minutes now.

"Are you alright?" Orion asked. "You seem tired."

"Yeah... I didn't sleep all that great last night." Sam admitted, pushing a hand against one eyeball. "I've got things on my mind."

"I'm sorry, it's only Tuesday. You won't be able to sleep in tomorrow." Orion reminded him. He held up three thick folders and handed them to Sam over the wall.

"Oh god, what the hell is that?" Sam asked in mounting horror. He didn't dare touch the folders, fearing that they would grow fangs and bite his fingers off.

Orion grinned. "It's the Morrison case."

"All of that?! What happened? Did a monsoon hit their private island?!" Sam cried. That was going to take him all day to file.

"Something like that." Orion left the folders on the desktop, as it was obvious Sam wasn't about to touch them. "All the information needs to be filed before you leave tonight. They're coming in on Wednesday to get their case settled. It needs to be done well before then."

Sam groaned and started shuffling through the folders. "Stupid-ass rich people and their private islands and private jets..."

"We can't all be lucky, Sam." Orion said placatingly. "Now are you positive that you're alright?"

The twenty-two year old paused in his shuffling and looked up. Orion was one of the few people in the building that Sam could stand talking to. Being the youngest non-intern employee, it was difficult for him to relate to the forty-something-year old men who dominated the work-place. None of them had ever been exposed to giant alien robots before either; he knew that. That was just another rift between them and him.

But Orion was strangely easy to talk to. He also wasn't forty-something. Sam was pretty sure that Orion was in his very late twenties or his very early thirties. He had straight black hair that fell in a stylish, but neat manner and it had a faint blue tint to it. His eyes were an amazing shade of deep blue. He had the muscular physique of someone in great physical condition (probably ran five miles every morning) and a sort of hard-bitten look about him; like a dog had clamped onto his butt and refused to let go, but he was determined to carry on like everything was normal.

In Sam's opinion, Orion looked like a leader; someone you would want to follow to the ends of the earth.

"I think my girlfriend might be cheating on me." Sam blurted out.

"Oh?" Orion just looked amused now.

"Well, my friend Miles suggested it. Because Mikaela's been working really late and I never see her in the mornings anymore." Sam explained, scratching his head. "We never go out anymore and she always tells me that she's got a prior engagement whenever I ask her if she wants to catch a movie. I don't even know what her job is. It's paying pretty well, obviously, but she doesn't talk about it."

"Have you asked her?"

"Yeah. She changed the subject."

"Maybe she thinks you won't approve of it." Orion suggested.

"What? Why wouldn't I approve of her job?" Sam wondered. "Okay, maybe if she's doing something -- weird like -- I dunno -- working at a strip-club -- I'd be a little freaked out and stuff. But if she's happy with her job, it's really not my place to interfere, right?"

"I suppose not." Orion agreed. "But perhaps you should ask her what her job is. Sometimes, the upfront approach is the best one. She won't like it if you sneak around."

"So... I shouldn't spy on her?"

"If I were you, no."

Sam tapped the pen restlessly on the desktop.

"Orion, do you think Mikaela is cheating on me?" he asked hopefully.

"No Sam, I don't. I do not believe that Mikaela would have any reason to hurt you in that way." Orion replied gently. "But you should make sure that she is not engaged in any dangerous activities. That could very well be the reason she is unwilling to discuss her job with you."

Ah, there was the voice of reason that Sam had been waiting for. Orion was so good at that. He was also good at calming Sam down.

"But what if she doesn't want to tell me?" the twenty-two year old wondered. "What if she thinks I'm being nosy and getting in her business and starts--"

"Sam!"

He shut up.

"Do you love her?" Orion asked.

"Yes." Sam replied firmly.

"And she loves you, correct?"

"Yeah."

"Are you familiar with the saying 'Love conquers all'?"

"Yeah, but what's that gotta do with this?"

"Mikaela loves you. She won't leave you high and dry." Orion said patiently. "She'll see that you're beginning to worry over her and her career. She'll tell you so she doesn't have to see you worry anymore. She won't want you to worry over her."

Sam blinked. "Wow. You're good with relationship advice." He smiled vaguely. "You must have one heck of a girl, buddy."

"I don't." Orion shook his head. His eyes had gone dark.

"You don't?" Sam was surprised. He had always assumed that Orion had the ladies all over him; he was sort of like Trent, except without the asshole-ish-ness. But than again, he had never really talked about his private life. Outside of work, Sam didn't know very much at all about the man.

Orion shook his head again. "There is someone, but I have not seen her in a long time. Our lives are -- very different." He smiled bitterly to himself. "At this point, a relationship simply wouldn't work."

"Well, just ring her up and get a dialogue going." Sam suggested. He wasn't so eloquent with his relationship advice.

"I wish it were that easy." Orion muttered. He pointed to the folders. "The Morrison case, Sam. By the end of the day."

"Sir, yessir." Sam gave a salute and dragged the folders from hell closer to his keyboard so he could get started.

* * *

**A quick note on... Original Characters.**

Daniel G.A.R. Gallagher first appeared in a rough draft of **'Til All Are One** until an overhaul of the plot removed the need for his character. He moped around in the back of my head for a while and kicked at plotbunnies, occasionally poking me to make sure I knew he was still alive. Later, he was resurrected and slightly retooled for another story. He currently appears in **Lost Fragments** by Mandy-deshi, with my permission. Seeing as he is one of the few human _Transformers_ characters that I created, I figured it won't kill me to actually do something with the guy. His appearance here is (more or less) his original incarnation.

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	2. The Looking Glass

**A/N:** I know I wasn't going out of my way to be extremely subtle or extremely obvious about it, but you people scare me. Really, really scare me.

Chapter two is only going up because I got it finished. I'm still setting the stage (ignore the bad pun; it'll make sense later) for the rest of the story and that includes getting the rest of the cast of characters introduced. This chapter is a little heavy on the exposition (which hopefully will be entertaining at least), but also contains a tiny nod to TAAO-verse. I'll be amazed (and scared again) if you catch it. It's a bit subtle, I think. Oh and yes, the rest of the Autobots are around here... somewhere.

**Disclaimer:** The concept of _Transformers_, among other things, belongs to HasTak and some other people. At least two characters in this chapter are original and belong to me.

* * *

**The Human Misunderstanding**

_Logic: The art of thinking and reasoning in strict accordance with the limitations and incapacities of the human misunderstanding._ -Ambrose Bierce

Chapter Two: The Looking Glass

* * *

Daniel Gregory Allen Robert Gallagher was contemplating his name.

He hated it.

He truly hated it.

He had great plans to murder his parents for giving him four names and he even knew where he was going to hide the bodies. In addition to killing his parents for wanting to honor a few too many relatives with just one person, he was also hoping to alter his name somewhat; stripping off the "Gregory Allen" bit, so it was just "Daniel Robert Gallagher". His current name was a mouthful and it made him feel like he had something to live up to.

Great-grandpa Daniel had attained the rank of colonel in World War One and a Purple Heart for courageous service in the face of overwhelming odds, giving the Gallagher family a bit of fame to their name. The story went that in the dead of a wet, rainy, muddy night, a small contingent of German soldiers had borne down on a handful of French/American soldiers bunkered in a small outpost in eastern France.

By midnight, when the German soldiers had made their move, Colonel Gallagher had been going a bit nutty from cabin fever and the fact he thought one of his comrades had it in for him. The French soldiers had quickly taken to calling him "le psychopathe" and as their accented voices had given the English-ish word a strange pronunciation, Colonel Gallagher had assumed that it was a compliment. He had proceeded to live up to the name by taking out twenty-three German soldiers with his bare hands in order to defend the outpost. He had only received a few scratches in return and not a shot had been fired.

He even continued to live up to "le psychopathe" label long after the war had ended. Gallagher family myth stated that Colonel Grandpa (as he was later known by his grandchildren) was the man who had carried the "crazy-gene" into this particular branch of the family tree.

Uncle Gregory had been a very sane man, up until his decision to pursue a psychology degree. He became a marginally successful psychiatrist and had found work in an asylum in upstate New York; dealing mostly with victims suffering from forms of post-traumatic stress disorder. Ten years after landing this job, he ended up in a white room himself; having become somewhat unstable in the head as well from listening to too many of his patients' problems. He was home these days, but he was currently on a lot of medication and convinced that the groundhog in his yard controlled the weather.

And Uncle Allen...

Uncle Allen hadn't exactly been sane to begin with. He had wandered away from home one night with no warning and turned up three months later at the Hoover Dam, raving about evil spacemen from Mars and the giant microphone on the Moon that had been placed up there by Big Brother in the guise of the lunar lander. Just as the police had been ready to arrest him for disturbing the peace and public indecency (he had been wearing a foil-covered Speedo on his head and nothing else), he had jumped off the wall and into Lake Mead. He had been arrested upon surfacing from the water. Uncle Allen was the blackest sheep in a family of black sheep. He was considered an absolute freak by even the weirdest members. Daniel hadn't seen him in going on ten years now.

It was Uncle Robert whom Daniel had liked the best. Uncle Robert had definitely been the favorite of the lot. And likely the most sane of the family members that Daniel had been named after. Daniel had been his favorite nephew and had gotten all of his uncle's wordly possessions after his death. He would gladly honor that uncle.

In the name department, however, Daniel figured that he had gotten off a helluva lot easier than his younger brother. His little brother whom bore the name James Arthur Gallagher the Fourth.

That was like, asking to be beaten up.

It was a boon for James that their father tended to go by the name 'Arthur' more than often not. It meant that James got to avoid any beatings by his classmates who thought it was utterly hilarious for him to be the fourth person in a row to bear that name.

It helped, to an extent, that their parents owned and operated the fairly well-known Looking Glass Theatre.

The Looking Glass Theatre wasn't a Broadway theatre. It wasn't even an Off-Broadway theatre. No, it was an Off-Off-Broadway theatre. It hosted approximately 108 seats and the stage wasn't much larger than the stages found in most high schools. It received most of its funding through generous donations, ticket sales and concessions. Thanks to the fact that they routinely sold out the house with every performance, the theatre were far from being in the red. Which was good, because this was basically the Gallaghers' life-blood, outside of the routine checks from the local actors' guild.

The theatre had opened in 1983 with a stirring three-night performance of _Alice in Wonderland_; starring the then-unmarried Giselle Simmons as Alice and the already-accomplished stage actor -- and son of the owner -- Arthur Gallagher as the Mad Hatter. The wonderful performances of these two had firmly cemented the Looking Glass Theatre's name on the back pages of the entertainment district and the pair had managed to make the theatre a well-known name in the Off-Off-Broadway stage circuit.

There had been a bit of publicity surrounding the theatre when -- six years after their first performance together -- Giselle Simmons and Arthur Gallagher had announced their intention to wed. Their first child had followed within the year.

Now, with the theatre's thirtiest anniversary on the horizon, the Gallaghers had decided that a blast from the past was in order. They were in the process of setting the stage -- quite literally -- for another production of _Alice in Wonderland_.

Only this time, Giselle had opted to try her hand at the role of the Queen of Hearts (she took quite a lot of delight in hollering "Off with her head!") and Arthur wanted to try on the Cheshire Cat for size. This time, the role of Alice fell to a different young woman and the face behind the Mad Hatter was none other than Miles Lancaster.

Now the question was, how on earth did Miles -- the best friend of the guy who had inadvertently saved the world from some seriously bad-ass alien robots -- find himself in the smaller world that was wrapped up in the walls of the Looking Glass Theatre?

It had been pretty simple, actually. Upon moving to New York, Miles had gotten some dinky job where he was underpaid and underappreciated, but lacked the apparently needed skills to get a better job. On his day off, about six months in, Daniel had called home in a panic, saying that one of their rotating regulars had vanished off the face of the planet and it was opening night and they needed someone to fill his role and Miles, you've got a talent for winging it! Help us!

So Miles had.

He'd had about four hours to memorize his new lines and cues before the curtain had opened. It had been fortunate that the role hadn't been a very big one and he had managed to nail everything without much stuttering. After the final curtain call, when he had been backstage waiting to wash the make-up off, he asked the elder Gallaghers about possibly joining the theatre as a full-time regular.

So this was where Miles had found himself. He loved the stage. He loved getting up in front of an audience and delivering an entertaining performance. Some latent talent for acting had emerged the longer he had spent under the hot stage lights. Not only did he like acting, but he was _**good**_ at it. Being a full-time regular meant that he got paid for it. A real paid actor! he would exclaim to Sam.

Just no Shakespeare for him. He had totally butchered _Twelfth Night_.

Rehearsals for the production of _Alice in Wonderland_ began today. They normally took place in the evening, due to the fact that many of the cast members worked regular nine-to-five jobs. Miles didn't have a job like that and he usually came in with Daniel (the latter being the script-editing, semi-director, sort of stage manager kind of guy) to help set things up before the rehearsal actually began.

They weren't the first to arrive to the theatre this morning. The house lights were down like usual, but the stage lights were lit and cycling through the different settings. There was an undercurrent of soft noise coming from behind the stage.

"The sort of stage manager has arrived!" Daniel called out in greeting as he clambered on to the proscenium. "Who's back there?!"

"DAMMIT DANIEL!!"

Daniel froze like a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding car. A sheepish grin crossed his face and then he bounded away just like that deer. He didn't get very far. His route of escape was suddenly blocked by an irate black-haired girl who had come sprinting out of the wings, waving a strange-looking tatter of sky blue cloth at him. Her blue-violet eyes were flashing angrily behind the darkly tinted glasses that she wore.

"Kimana! Favorite best buddy in the whole world!" Daniel cried, crossing his arms rather protectively across his vital body parts. "Please don't hurt me."

Miles sniggered and stood back to wait for the show. Kimana was likely the only person in the world who could turn Daniel into a quivering pile of goo.

"The costumes! The costumes are in the worst shape I've ever seen! I thought you said they were sealed!" Kimana snapped. She was quite incensed. "It isn't **you** that I'm planning to kill, but you will get horribly maimed for lying to me about the state of the costumes!"

"I didn't lie!" Daniel said defensively

"Then what is this, exactly?" Kimana shoved the tatter of sky blue cloth at his chest.

"Looks like a dish rag to me--" Daniel held it up in front of him and actually looked at it. "This is supposed to be Alice's dress, isn't it."

Kimana nodded.

"Geez, looks like a raccoon got its claws on it."

"This isn't the worst of it." Kimana went on. "You don't even want to know what the Queen's costume looks like." She threw up her hands. "How on earth did they get in such bad shape?"

"Well, they **are** thirty years old." Daniel pointed out. "And besides, it's not like I really _lied_ to you. These costumes were last used almost seven years before I was born! I was just going by what my parents told me!"

Miles bit back a snigger when he saw that a spotlight had fallen on the arguing couple.

"Well, next time, don't listen to your parents so much!"

"Hey, I know you get weird when people bring their parents up, but seriously, mine aren't half crazy as they could be!"

"Your dad quotes Shakespeare as part of his every day life! That's a sure sign of a nutcase!"

"Mom's normal!"

"Your mom narrates while washing the dishes! And **you** think the government is spying on everyone via satellite TV!"

"You hate people!"

"People are idiots!"

Miles couldn't take listening to this any more. He had already been biting his tongue for the last minute and he just couldn't any longer. So he burst into laughter. Daniel and Kimana suddenly jumped back from each other, abruptly recalling that they had an audience. Their arguments didn't happen very often; they actually got on quite well. But when they did argue, they usually veered away from the topic completely and ended up taking potshots at each other's faults; namely Kimana's distinctly misanthropic attitude towards the human race as a whole and Daniel's paranoid tendencies.

"Commissions whore." Daniel muttered.

"Riverdancing bastard." Kimana shot back. "Cricket! Turn off the spotlight! I think it works now!" she hollered at the light and sound booth perched high above the seats on the far side of the auditorium.

"I'm _blind_!" Daniel screeched theatrically, throwing his hands over his face. The spotlight clicked off suddenly, leaving the two of them blinking the spots out of their eyes.

"C'mon Miles, I'm gonna take the old costumes out of the dumpster. You're helping me." Kimana said.

"Sure thing!" Miles cheerfully jumped onto the stage and followed the black-haired girl into the backstage area.

Miles had met Kimana on the same day he had been recruited by Daniel into that suddenly empty position. She hadn't been terribly pleased with the idea of re-hemming a costume designed for someone three sizes larger than Miles and only having four hours to do it properly, so Miles hadn't exactly gotten the chance to see her nicer side.

The nicer side had eventually emerged at the cast party afterwards, once Daniel had carefully poked and prodded and had gotten Kimana to drink a full bottle of Vault, which had the same effect on her as it did a chipmunk drinking Red Bull. And Kimana, though initially guarded around Miles, had warmed up enough to be considered amiable. And then once the caffeine had worked its way through her system, Miles had been treated to the exact reason why she and Daniel had been friends since the age of ten.

They were both nuts.

When Kimana opened the door to the small room where the old _Alice in Wonderland_ costumes had been stored, startled moths fluttered into the air.

"Whoa!" Miles waved the fluttery white things out of his face.

"Yeah, we need to replace everything." Kimana said, sighing heavily. "There was no way Gail is going to be able to fit into Alice's costume anyways. Even if she dropped twenty pounds in the next five months."

"I thought Alice was supposed to some stick-thin seven-year old." Miles commented. "Not-- however many pounds Gail is."

Kimana threw him a look.

"Gail was nailed the character personality during auditions. She's the best we've got for the role." she said. "You know that."

"Dun wanna."

Kimana threw a black, clunky-looking, buckled shoe at him. Four years around her had taught Miles how to dodge flying projectiles like a pro.

The entire store room smelled rather strongly of mothballs; an unpleasant smell that was not alleviated by packing the old, threadbare and entirely useless costumes into large plastic bags. Kimana had the overhead fan running, but it didn't help much. Miles kept the hem of his collar over his nose to block out the worst of the smell. It took them two trips each to get the trash bags out to the dumpster behind the theatre where they belonged. When they got back in, the lights went out.

"Ack! I really am blind!" They heard Daniel shout from the stage. "Cricket! The lights! The lights are out!"

Miles felt his way back to the stage, navigating the twisty backstage path by memory.

"What happened to the lights, guys?" he asked, fighting his way around the curtains. "Is Cricket messing with us again?"

"Power's out, ya nutjobs!" came the semi-distant shout in the voice of the Looking Glass Theatre's light-and-sound tech. There was the faint sound of rummaging and then a light flickered on in the booth above the auditorium.

"What happened?" Kimana asked. It sounded like she was still in the wings.

"Just flopped out on us!" was the reply. "Hang on! I'm coming out!"

Miles patted around for the brick wall that he recalled being nearby and found it. Once upon a time, he had been afraid of the dark and sometimes, it was hard to forget that period of his childhood. He felt slightly anxious until he saw the flashlight beam alight upon the far wall, shining out of the tunnel that led to the light-and-sound booth. The tunnel was accessible by a ladder and down that ladder came one of the people responsible for keeping the Looking Glass Theatre running behind the scenes.

Her full name was Winnifred Josephine Moyer, but all her friends called her 'Cricket' because she could perfectly mimic the noise that crickets made and that she hit anyone (other than her immediate family) who used her legal names. She was tall, thin and pale; white-blonde hair and pale blue eyes. She seemed determined to off-set this by wearing as many dark colors as possible.

"I don't know what happened to the freakin' power; it's just gone." Cricket said, waving the flashlight over their faces. She handed a second flashlight to Daniel, who was closest.

"Think it's just us?" Miles wondered.

Cricket shrugged. "Hell if I know." She headed for proscenium and jumped off, setting her clipboard down as she went. "I'm gonna check the circuit breaker."

"I'll go with you." Kimana offered and proceeded to follow the other girl off the stage.

"Stop hating humanity!" Daniel shouted after them. In reply, he got a gesture that didn't look particularly kind. Miles slapped a hand down on his shoulder.

"Ain't gonna happen, bro." he reminded him.

"I know, but it's just--" Daniel fiddled with the flashlight. "Whenever they start talking -- it's all -- 'People suck' and 'I hate the human race'." He shook his head. "I tell ya, Miles. They get on like whole housing development on fire."

"Never should have introduced 'em to each other." Miles recommended.

"Yeah well, hindsight's twenty-twenty." Daniel retorted.

Kimana and Cricket regularly argued that they were normal people. But they were also less -- fond of the human race as a collective whole. They agreed that a person was smart, but people were "dumb, panicky, dangerous animals and you know it".

Naturally, they got along perfectly.

When Cricket had first moved all the way from the sunny state of California in an attempt to be her "own person, goddammit" and had signed on as the light-and-sound tech for the Theatre, Daniel had gotten what he thought had been the brilliant idea to introduce the new girl to his long-time friend Kimana. He admitted that his initial thoughts had been that they would get along good enough and that they had might as well get along if they were going to be working together. So when the first opportunity had presented itself, Cricket and Kimana were introduced to each other.

The whole introduction had turned into a prime example about why hindsight was always twenty-twenty.

Kimana had been quick to inform the new girl that she didn't like people very much. The new girl had been equally quick to voice her opinion that a large portion of the population should have been shot at birth.

And just like that, Daniel had two misanthropes on his hands.

Kimana had suddenly found someone who would listen to and agree with her less-than amiable opinions regarding the human species. And Cricket discovered a person who would take her ranting tirades in stride, and more importantly, listen to those ranting tirades.

Like a housing development on fire indeed.

Kimana had always been a bit anti-social and she was almost abnormally picky about who she made friends with. The way she saw it, her standards weren't so much as high as they were restricted. These restricted standards she promptly blamed on her grandmother, whom had been responsible for her upbringing. Grandma Clandestine hadn't been a terrible social person either and had about the same standards as her granddaughter. The way it was, Kimana wasn't comfortable around normal, well-adjusted people.

Miles took this to mean that he himself was neither normal nor well-adjusted.

What also didn't help Kimana make friends was her inability to coexist peacefully with technology. It had a tendency of breaking on her or simply not working right. It was like she could touch a mobile phone and it would stop working. She could barely get the Theatre's old sewing machine to work properly on the best of days and anything with a circuit board was simply out of the question. The wonders of the modern age were utterly lost on her.

Whatever had happened that had caused Cricket to sink into a state of misanthropy, no one actually knew. She wasn't keen on talking about life before the end of her high school career, no matter how good a mood she was in. She had made vague comments pertaining to the fact that she had not actually graduated high school and had remarked something about it being a cesspool before returning to marking down lighting cues on her copy of the script.

She was, however, prone to ranting about everything and nothing for upwards to ten minutes and Miles realized that if he listened to these rants, he could glean some information regarding her life out of them.

But all he had really learned was that humanity stunk, her step-father was halfway up the Misogyny Creek without a paddle, and that she apparently had a serious problem with this "sodding alien who prances around time and space like a feather-brained ditz completely drunk on the damn tea!" Apparently this alien also owned a large blue box.

After two years, Miles finally deduced that Cricket was determined to see the worst in people.

It was like rejecting a marshmallow for its burnt black outside; never mind that the inside was all soft and gooey.

On the other hand, once Cricket had decided that your redeeming qualities outweighed the undesirable aspects of humanity's collective stupidity, she became a decent person to spend time with.

As long as you weren't sensitive to copious amounts of swearing, that is.

"I dunno, Miles. I think we should stage an intervention." Daniel said all of a sudden. "Before they decide to wipe out half the population of New York in one vicious blow."

"Dude, I am **not** getting between those two." Miles said firmly. "I'm on Kimana's good side. I wanna stay there."

"What about Cricket?"

"Cricket hits people. I wanna stay out of range."

"Wuss."

"Survival."

Down in the cluttered basement of the theatre, Cricket was making Kimana hold the flashlight while she unlocked the circuit box.

"I find it slightly disturbing that the Gallaghers trust me with the electricity." the blonde-haired woman was saying in the driest tone she could manage. It was pretty dry. "I never liked electricity. Does funny things to your head."

"And yet you cheerfully ignore the high voltage warning sign." Kimana noted with a smile.

"Damn straight I do." Cricket said. The lock clicked under her fingers. She took the padlock off and opened the lid. Kimana obligingly shown the light on the interior of the box.

"Must have been a surge. Tripped all the breakers." Cricket announced after she was finished examining the circuits. "Or maybe you just looked at the lights the wrong way." she added wryly to Kimana.

"Shut it." the black-haired woman snapped.

Cricket's grin was the very definition of cheeky as she reached up and flipped the master breaker back into its 'on' position and then the rest of the circuits in turn. The lamps in the basement buzzed to life, casting a yellow-ish glow over thirty years worth of props and cobwebs. Most of them had never seen the light of the stage after their initial use. Cricket shuddered once she had tallied up a rough estimate of just how many old props were sitting around. Kimana knew that the blonde-haired woman was just itching to put some organization to this mess, but the devil-may-care attitude she showed to the world kept her at bay.

The pair of misanthropes made their way back upstairs to the theatre. The lights had come back on properly, to Cricket's relief; she hated preventive maintenance. Miles and Daniel had seated themselves on the proscenium, letting their legs hang off. They were discussing the lumpiness of their couch -- or at least that's what it sounded like to Kimana.

"Hey Daniel!" Cricket called out as they came down the center aisle. "I've got good news on the gun situation!"

Miles perked up. "We get guns?"

"No, the card-guards get guns." Cricket corrected, picking up her clipboard. "I don't trust you with a gun like I don't trust the bottom of your shoes to be clean enough to eat off of."

"That doesn't stop you from throwing them at me." Miles pointed out.

"Doesn't mean I trust you with a gun." Cricket said pointedly.

"So what's our gun situation?" Daniel asked, sitting forward.

"There's a place near 37th and Fifth that showed promise." Cricket handed Daniel a business card. "The owner has several old bayonets that he keeps on display and I talked to him about possibly loaning them out. We'll have to pay a fee for it, but he said yes, we could borrow them as long as we have no intention of loading them with live ammo."

"Sweet." Miles drawled. "You sure he's not just some two-bit snake, though? Completely on the level?"

"He asked me for ID the second I walked in the door. This bastard does freakin' background checks like it's going out of style." Cricket assured them. "If that's not 'on the level', then I don't know what you would call it." Then she scowled. "Jerk's got dedication to an honest job, I'll say that much for him."

The other three looked at each other, but didn't say much of anything. That was normally about as close as Cricket got to complimenting a random stranger. If she, with all her looking-for-the-worst-in-everybody, could be assured of a total stranger's better nature to her contentment, then it was highly likely that this person was surely nothing short of a model citizen.

"Sweet. I'll check it out in my free time." Daniel offered. "What this place called again?"

"The Iron Clad Hide: Gun, Knife and Accessories." Cricket reeled off. "Number seven. Bit of a hole in the wall. Easy to miss. Sandwiched between a photo shop and god-damned McDonald's, of all things."

Daniel gave a dazed sort of grin. "Knives..."

Kimana gave him a warning slap on the shoulder. "Touch nothing, Daniel!"

"What?! I wasn't thinking about knives!" Daniel protested. "I was thinking about-- uh... Knives! The _Trigun_ character! You know! Knives! Because his name is Knives-- Oh forget it! My humor is lost on you!"

Miles just sniggered, Cricket rolled her eyes and Kimana shook her head.

"You and sharp, pointy objects just don't mix." she said wearily.

"I happen to have a healthy, working relationship with any and all sharp, pointy objects!" Daniel shouted in protest.

"Then you won't mind if I tell the story about your adventure with the scissors and the art teacher's prize-winning stuffed goose at the next cast party?" Kimana inquired slyly.

"Oh by all means, do your worst." Daniel said confidently. Then he noticed the way that Miles and Cricket were looking at him. "What?"

"A stuffed goose?" Cricket repeated. She grinned; something that did not necessarily herald good times for all. "Do tell, Kimana."

"Yeah, I'd love to hear how this one turned out." Miles agreed. He always enjoyed hearing about Daniel's youthful pratfalls. It made him feel like he had more common sense in comparison.

Daniel seemed to shrink under the stares he was receiving; from Cricket's pale one to Kimana's dark one to Miles's mid-level blue. He tried his best to maintain that confident, blustery sort of air, but it cracked and he hung his head. There was no forgetting the episode of the scissors and the art teacher's prize-winning stuffed goose. Nor was there any forgetting the crazed look that had been in his eye.

"Take Sam with you when you go. He's responsible." Miles suggested brightly. "And he needs to get out of the house more often than just for work."

"Good idea. I'm not letting you go anywhere near that place by yourself." Kimana said with a look that promised an extremely painful death if he dared go to that store alone.

"What is wrong with you humans?" Cricket asked in a venomous sort of tone (not for the first time either). "You all just look for more inventive ways to kill one another. You're such a destructive species."

"You're human too." Miles reminded her.

"As far as you!" Cricket spat out. She pointed a dramatic finger in his direction. "I could be the really recessive-gene second-generation descendant of aliens who landed back here in the forties! But you don't know that! Because I don't have to tell you!"

Then she burst into cackling laughter, jumped onto the stage and ascended back into the light-and-sound booth. After her clunking footsteps had faded, Kimana broke the silence first.

"I'm really starting to think she's not as sane as she wants us to believe." the black-haired woman stated.

Miles nodded sagely. He knew all about strange psycho people, having seen it first-hand in his good buddy, Sam.

Alright, so it wasn't entirely fair to call Sam strange and psycho, but it didn't change the fact that his car had been evil. Or at least produced by one of Hell's subdivisions.

Or it was a giant alien robot; just like Sam had said.

Even four years after hearing that, Miles was torn between believing it and not. On one hand, the concept just sounded freaking _cool_. An alien robot coming to Earth and disguising itself as your car while fighting a war against some other robots who were evil and could destroy the planet if things got out of hand. Awesome.

On the other hand, it sounded like the plot of an 80s cartoon. A poorly thought out one.

Personally, Miles liked the Satan's Camaro angle. As strange as it seemed, he could believe that the yellow Camaro had really belonged to Satan first; rather than it being an alien robot from the depths of outer space. Aliens weren't-- Well, he didn't want to say that they weren't real. He had just never seen one before.

Not that he had ever seen Satan before either, but Satan had a long established history in the human consciousness. Aliens hadn't started cropping up in the imagination with regular frequency until the early 1900s and Miles just couldn't bring himself past the stage of simply imaging they existed and might be bothered to make contact with Earth one day.

Within the hour, the Theatre settled into its usual state of normalcy. Daniel and Cricket had sat down and were now watching the 1983 version of the play to get an idea for the props, scene changes and light cues. Miles read his copy of the script, highlighting his dialogue, trying to get a feel for the character he had chosen to portray. And Kimana sifted through great swathes of fabric, searching for the particular shade of sky blue that would get turned into Alice's dress.

In the middle of each task, the power went out again.

"Okay, does anyone know why the hell that keeps happening?" Cricket asked of the Theatre at large. "That's fourth time since I've gotten here."

"Four times? Seriously?" Daniel was heard asking.

Though no one could really see it, Cricket nodded. "Yeah. If this keeps up, expect to see a news report tomorrow morning about how everyone at the local power station died under mysterious circumstances."

Miles hoped she wasn't being serious.

He really, really hoped she wasn't being serious.

That was the real problem with her. It was hard to tell.

* * *

**A quick note on... Original characters.**

Kimana Clandestine first appears in **Lost Fragments** by Mandy-deshi and is used here with permission. I originally had no intention of including her, but in the **Lost Fragments **story, she and Daniel are best friends and something of a package deal. The more I thought about it, the more it didn't seem right to _not_ include her. She has undergone a slight retooling in order to fit into the plot. For this story, her eyes aren't purple (as they are in **Lost Fragments**); I stripped away the freaky powers from outer space; and she has about as much luck with machines as Capt'n Fanzone from _Transformers: Animated_. Her basic personality components and quirks have been left unchanged.

Winnifred Josephine "Cricket" Moyer originally appears in the story **Mirror, Mirror** by Hazardous Materials (my secondary profile). She was initially created for the _Doctor Who_ fandom, but was able to make the leap over to _Transformers_ thanks to several elements. The separate timelines are easily matched up (this would essentially take place two years after Cricket's travels with the Doctor); the ages correspond (Cricket was eighteen when she began traveling with the Doctor; they parted ways when she was twenty; in this story, she is twenty-two; just like Sam); and she has an appropriate occupation. There is some (deliberate) indication that this is the exact same Cricket who traveled for two years with the Doctor, so there is little need to reconcile with the established character history.


End file.
